


Hopeless.

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>338 words of h/c (whumped!John), followed by 437 words of porn, then 562 words of smut, then a dash of fluffy pre-smut</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopeless.

It had been months since John had lost this much awareness, but he had gotten lost somewhere between 7:32 AM, when he had resolutely decided that he needed to at least attempt to talk to Harry, and 3:26 PM, when they both had had too much to drink (she more than he, but it hardly mattered anymore) and he stormed out and made his way back to Baker Street.  
He hated Christmas, had since their parents had been killed when he was nineteen, tires slipping on ice late Christmas Eve, and wondered why he had thought this one would be different.  
Sherlock had apparently returned to the flat just minutes before John had; he was still removing his gloves and his coat. If John knew what his eyes looked like, knew that he had tears starting to spill out, knew that his limp was suddenly pronounced after months of nothing, along with his hand shaking uncontrollably, he wouldn’t have wondered why Sherlock had that surprised look on his face, the one John hadn’t seen since the night at the pool with Moriarty.  
As it was, he was too drunk, and he would not remember the moment he lurched right into Sherlock’s arms, he would not remember Sherlock dragging him to bed, laying him down, and cradling him.  
He would remember, the next morning, wondering what the hell had happened to his flatmate to make him rub circles in John’s back. He would remember wondering who had stolen Sherlock’s voice to murmur soothing things, and why Sherlock wasn’t getting angry about John leaving salty tears and snot on the front of his shirt.  
When he finally did wake, at 10:17 AM, he was dogged by a headache and a gnawing sense that he hadn’t just had a particularly vivid dream. He dragged himself downstairs, seeking water and aspirin. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were both sitting in the living room, arguing over who the killer was, and it took a moment for John to realize that they were watching telly.  
**  
Yes, Sherlock can act quite normally, within the confines of social norms, and even exhibit empathy. When he wants to, John thinks bitterly. Manipulative bastard. If he was being petty, angry because Sherlock was flirting with a suspected murderer, charming her, it was because Sherlock had been ignoring him, leaving him behind instead of working with him on this case, certainly not because he was jealous.  
Hopeless. Not the first time John had used the word to describe himself, but it seemed even more appropriate now.  
**  
Sherlock wasn’t shy about putting his hands on John, nudging him and turning him around and shaking him, getting into his personal space to catch his attention. But he’d never pushed his body right into John’s space, never used his frame to pen John in, to keep him from walking away. But now he had both hands braced on the wall, on either side of John, demanding an answer with his eyes. Certainly it was because John wasn’t so insufferably rude as Sherlock that he didn’t just push Sherlock out of the way, not because he was enjoying Sherlock’s closeness. Absurd.  
“Why is it so important to know?” John stared straight back at him.  
“Because John. I feel the same way about you that you do about me.”  
Hopeless. John put both of his hands behind Sherlock’s head and pulled him in for a kiss, hard and messy. For the second time in three months Sherlock half-dragged, half-carried John upstairs to John’s bedroom, impatiently removing his t-shirt from where it was tucked into John’s jeans, beneath his jumper and undoing his zip. John tripped, falling gracelessly backwards onto the bed. Sherlock smirked and removed his own clothes while John finished kicking his off and scrabbling up onto his elbows to get a proper eyeful.  
The way Sherlock spread himself out on John’s body reminded John of the way tea colors water when heat is added to the equation. Sherlock expertly, almost methodically slotted them together and seemed to be pushing against John with the same enthusiasm that he usually reserved for a particularly interesting case. John chose to be flattered.  
He came, too early, and the sensations were suddenly all too much. He turned his head, closing his eyes, until Sherlock took hold of his chin and, not forcefully, but not with a request, turned his face back. He met Sherlock’s gaze, and his heart thrummed at the smile. Sherlock let his kiss linger before rolling off and slinging an arm over his eyes. “We should do this again, in a few hours.”  
John managed a dazed “unh” in reply.  
**  
It was, in fact, a few days before they managed to return to the subject. Caught up in a new case, the idea was shelved but not forgotten. It added something to what was already a breathless situation, but John was exhausted by the time they returned to 221 Baker Street after giving their final statements. He was about to drowse off in his chair when Sherlock’s question startled him awake.  
“John, have you ever been penetrated? Anally, I mean.”  
John bit back the urge to roll his eyes at Sherlock’s coda. “Yes. A few times. It’s always a bit unsettling, to tell the truth.” His heart was thrumming in his chest again.  
“I’d like to penetrate you. Would you be willing?” Sherlock had let his gaze fall on John.  
“Oh god yes.”  
Sherlock pushed him back on the bed unceremoniously. John, once again, scrabbled to rest on his elbows to get a proper eyeful. This time he focused on Sherlock’s long, fully erect cock as Sherlock carefully slid a condom on. “Do you want me on my back or my front?” John asked, only wondering briefly why he felt that Sherlock’s preference trumped his own.   
“On your back, of course. I want to look at you.” Sherlock took the lubricant and spread it liberally and methodically over his fingers. He tapped the back of John’s thigh and John lifted his legs. Sherlock hesitated. “You’ll have to direct me a bit, I’ve done some research, but I need your input.”  
“One finger at a time,” John replied, and Sherlock inserted the middle finger of his right hand. He paused again.   
“What?” John couldn’t keep a note of impatience out of his voice; he was rock hard and anxious.   
“It’s been a while since you’ve done this. You’ll be more relaxed if you have an orgasm first.” Sherlock dropped to his knees. “Do you mind if I use my mouth to bring you off?”  
John just gaped at him. “Right, stupid question,” Sherlock murmured, and proceeded to swallow John’s cock, slowly and purposefully.  
Sherlock must have been as hard as John was, but he drew it out, working his fingers into John’s opening, moving his tongue slowly, and bringing John to the edge over and over. John wondered where Sherlock had gotten his experience, or if he was just a natural, or if it had just been so long since he himself had had someone’s mouth on him that it only seemed like the most expert blow job he’d ever received in his life.  
Hopeless, clearly. John tried to strangle out a warning and Sherlock pulled off, regarding the act of John ejaculating with some interest. He then, somewhat gleefully, climbed up onto the bed and pushed in, slowly at first, then thrusting more intently. John was fucked out, lost in post-orgasmic bliss, but he noticed a bead of sweat forming on Sherlock’s forehead, and his eyes followed it as it trickled down Sherlock’s face. If Sherlock hadn’t been holding his wrists pinned to the mattress, John would have tried to bring Sherlock’s face closer so that he could catch it with his tongue.  
Sherlock fucking Holmes is holding you down and stuffing you. John allowed himself this one idle thought, followed by This is how I would like to die, please. He couldn’t have been more naked if Sherlock had peeled back his skin and examined him beneath it.   
Hopeless.  
**  
Two days later John returned from work at the surgery to find Sherlock reclining on the sofa, bored and listless, staring at the ceiling. He lowered himself onto the long, lean body and pushed his nose into the side of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock didn’t move, except to wrap his arms around John.  
“Was it Christmas?” John asked, his voice muffled.  
“No,” Sherlock replied. “It was after you followed me out of Angelo’s that night.”  
“Sure took you long enough,” John replied.  
“Was it Christmas for you?” Sherlock asked, slowly drawing his fingers through John’s hair.  
“Mmm. Yes, probably.”  
They spent close to half an hour like that before Sherlock grew antsy. “I’m bored, John. I’ve never been penetrated. Would you like to teach me?”  
John’s mouth suddenly went dry. “Oh god yes.”  
Hopeless.


End file.
